


I HATE you!

by orphan_account



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Fighting, France needs a hug, Hatred, Insults, M/M, Self Harm, Supresssed gay feels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-14
Updated: 2015-06-14
Packaged: 2018-04-04 09:34:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,206
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4132575
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>France and England, as usual, are fighting. England crosses the line however, when he says that France never loved Joan.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I HATE you!

“I hate you and your small dick!” France yelled, throwing a book at England. 

“Yeah, well I bloody hate you and your perverted mind!” England ducked behind a chair, narrowly missing the projectile. 

“All you ever do is drink your goddamned tea all fricking day!” France said. Crossing his arms, he gave England an overly confident look, raising his chin in the air. 

“I bet your teeth are turning yellow and your liver is melting!” 

England narrowed his eyes. He clenched his fists, and took a deep breath, closing his eyes. He was not going to let this fight go on any longer. He was going to walk out of this room, before he said something that he’d really regret. He was not going to let this infuriating man get to him anymore. He was going to walk out of the room like the cool, collected, British gentleman he was. 

“You have a despicably skinny ass.” France muttered, rubbing his eyes tiredly. He just wanted this fighting to end. He wanted it to end, yet, he was always the one  
re-starting it again every time? Why was that? Why did he keep setting himself up for failure? There was a reason he was alone. There was a reason he kept fighting this painful thing that was growing in his chest. It was like subconsciously, he couldn’t bear the thought of seeing himself get what he so wanted. 

England, for some strange reason, took strong offense at that statement. He stomped his foot, fuming. “Well – well – everyone knows that you raped Joan! You  
made her be with you! She didn’t want it! You sick, twisted human being!” 

France too half a step back, blinking. “Wh-what?”

“You heard what I said.” England whispered. “You heard what I said.” He bit his lip, taking a deep breath. He started the lie, he had to end it. He had to, no matter how pained the look on France’s face was. “You raped her.” 

France opened his mouth, groping for something to defend himself with. He had loved her. He had loved her with a passion that defied reality. He had no way of communicating how deep their love had been, no way of trying to say that what they had shared was not only consensual, but treasured. Their love had been sacred. 

“You dirty bastard.” France whispered, turning on his heel and storming out of the room. “I hate you!” 

He swept down the hallway, blue cloak trailing behind him. Hot anger boiled in his stomach, making him clench his fists. 

France entered a small sitting room, slamming the door shut viciously behind him. He paced angrily around the room four times before collapsing on a chair with a huff. 

His hands shook, but he had no release for the pent up anger. He was breathing hard, still fuming. 

“That Bastard.” He muttered, voice cracking. “That dirty bastard.” He buried his face in his hands, trembling. 

How dare he say that he had raped Joan? How dare he say that he was a man low enough to do such a despicable thing? How dare he accuse him of such a dishonorable, let alone that he committed the crime upon the one woman he would ever love? 

France punched a couch cushion viciously. He had loved her. She had loved him. He had tried to do everything within his power to protect her.

But that passionate, flaming wild heart he had fallen in love with couldn’t be caged. He tried to be there to keep her safe, protect her. He couldn’t count how many times he’d taken an arrow, a dagger, a sword for her. He’d take all that and more to get her back. He’d have done anything to save her, keep her safe. 

Some people were just destined to have their light snuffed out early, it seemed. 

France hugged himself, rocking back and forth slowly. If he had just been a little faster, a little stronger a little better, he might have been able to save her. He might have been able to stop her from being burned. 

Looking back at it now, the way she died seemed sadly ironic. Joan, the most beautiful woman in the world, lit by eternal fire of God himself that burned in her soul, was torched at the stake for her cause. 

She burned. 

God, he couldn’t think too hard about that. The few times that he did always ended in tears and self mutilation. He could not do that here. Not at England’s house.  
What if he heard him crying and thought him not only despicable but weak? France couldn’t bear it. He couldn’t bear it at all. 

Still, his vision blurred with tears and his hands shook with emotion. 

He just couldn’t do this anymore. 

 

Somewhere else in the house, England rage paced through a different room, hell bent on reliving his anger by stress drinking tea and wearing a trench in the floor. 

He shouldn’t have said that. He knew how France felt. He had seen the tears streaming down the man’s face when he heard that his beloved Joan had died. He had felt the hatred that radiated from his being. 

It was his fault that France was like this. He had been the country that got involved. He let his soldiers burn her. He hadn’t fully comprehended just how much  
France loved her when he gave them permission. If he had known, he would have had some mercy. 

But was done was done. The guilt was England’s, and as far as he was concerned, he was somehow supposed to fix what he had broken. 

He couldn’t resist moaning, and taking another gulp of his tea. 

He had to go apologize to France. Somehow, he had to mend what he had broken. 

It was all his fault. 

 

 

France was still curled on the couch when England stopped in front of the door. 

France was quite certain at that point that he was done with life. Having clawed gouges on his forearm with no relief in sight, he just wanted something to make it stop. Was he desperate enough to try ending it again? Maybe. It hadn’t worked very well last time though. Damn the fact that he was a country and kind of immortal. Damn that fact that nothing helped. Damn the empty space inside that threatened to suck out everything he ever dreamed of having. 

England opened the door slowly, a little afraid France was going to throw something heavier at him, like a bookend. 

Instead of launched bookends, he found a shaking, teary eyed France curled up on his side on the couch, staring glazedly in his general direction. 

“France?” He asked, almost certain that the man was dead. 

“What do you want?” France sat up, trying to drag his wrist over his eyes and pull down his shirtsleeves at the same time. 

“I- I – “ England was speechless at the sight of blood on France’s clothes. 

“Get out.” France muttered wretchedly, when every part of him wanted England to stay, comfort him, and tell him he was going to be okay.  
England strode across the room, and knelt down in front of France. He gently grabbed his arm, and tried to pull it out where he could see it. 

France crossed his arms over his chest, ducking his head. “I’m fine. Just let me leave.”

“Let me see.” England ordered, finally pulling his arm down. He carefully lifted the sleeve up, insistent upon seeing even when he hissed in pain. 

“France, you’re not fine.” England said slowly, surveying the scored skin. “This isn’t fine.”

France yanked his arm away and roughly pulled his shirtsleeve back down, not even caring about the blood showing anymore. “Just let me leave.”

“Not until you tell me you’ll be fine when you go home.”

“I just want to go home!” France said, louder.

“No.”

“Let me leave!” France tried to stand up, but England pushed him back down on the couch. 

“No. Not until you can give me your word you won’t start doing this – “he gestured to France’s arm. “ – as soon as you leave.”

“I just want her back.” France moaned, tangling his fingers in his hair and pulling. 

England ignored the sharp stab of guilt that was slicing through his chest. “We both know that won’t happen.”

“I know. I know.” Silent tears began to fall down France’s face. “I just want it to stop.”

“I know.” England sat down next to him, and sighed deeply. He didn’t know what the hell to do. He didn’t know how he was supposed to help someone he knew was self harming. He felt kind of like he was drowning. Everything was so confusing, and he didn’t know how to help. 

“I’m sorry I said those things about Joan.” England whispered. “I know – I know you loved her a lot.”

France laughed self deprecatingly. “No kidding.” 

England gave France a few moments to collect himself before he continued. “I’m sorry I’ve instigated so many fights over the years. If I had known – “ 

“This doesn’t change anything.” France said, twitching his bleeding arm. “Anything at all.”

England bit his lip. Oh, the things that he wanted to say but never could. Not now, not after everything he’d done to hurt him. That would just be – it would be too much to ask. 

“I am tired of being alone.” France announced, clenching his fists. “I am really tired of being alone.” His voice cracked again at the end as he choked back a small sobbing noise. 

England viciously killed the small hopeful feeling in his chest. Now would not be the appropriate time. Not now, probably not ever. For Christ’s sake, the man just cut himself! He wouldn’t be in enough shape to handle something like that anyway!

France turned his head slightly towards England. It would be so easy. So incredibly easy. And it would be totally worth it, if he could just feel wanted for a moment. 

France put a hand on England’s shoulder. As he turned to look at him in surprise, France planted a small, almost innocent kiss on England’s lips. 

“Y-you – “ England stuttered, blushing as he pulled away. “I – I – “

France’s face crumpled a little bit, but he didn’t cry. That was it. That was his moment. That was all he got. 

France stood up, and walked towards the door. Just a few more steps. He could make it a few more steps. Tomorrow would probably be easier. Hopefully, it would be easier. Maybe, it would be easier. 

It took England a few moments to register what had just happened. He clenched his fists, stood up, and squared his shoulders.

“France.” He said, voice suddenly a little high pitched and scared. “France wait.”

France stopped, and looked down at the floor. He aggressively pounded down any possible hopes that were trying to float through his head. There was no hope. Life was hopeless. That was it. 

“You have to kiss me again.” England announced. “Yours was too fast.” 

France turned slowly, looking at England with the most pained hopeful expression he had ever seen.  
Within the blink of an eye, France had catapulted himself into England’s arms. 

England kissed him slowly, savoring every passionate second. 

When they finally pulled apart, France literally went weak at the knees, and fell to the ground. 

“France?” England knelt down next to him, concern eeking from every pore. “France, what is it?”

“Was that – Are we – did you mean that?” 

“I did.” England pulled France into his arms and held him tight as he cried. “And we’re going to help you fix this” He said, gesturing at France’s arm. 

France shrugged, trying to dry his eyes. “I deserved that.”

“No, you didn’t. You’ll never deserve something like this.” England kissed his cheek. “Now, we need to get you bandaged up. I probably should have done that first, actually.”

France chuckled a little, brain still on overdrive from the kisses. “No. I liked the order of that.” He grinned. “I liked that.” 

England blushed a little. “Well.” He tried to come up with something encouraging to say. “Now you don’t ever have to be lonely again.” 

France nodded, trying to breathe deeply. It was over. It was finally over. 

“I kind of thought for a while there you hated me.” France said, wiping his nose on his sleeve. “You know, a while being at least a hundred years. 

“I did too.” 

“This is going to sound really sexual, but can I sleep here tonight?”France asked, looking up at him with pleading eyes. 

England nodded exuberantly. “Of course! I – I kind of wanted you to stay.” 

France grinned, hugging England tightly. “We’re really gay.” He chuckled, burying his nose deep into England’s shoulder. He took a deep breath. He wasn’t alone.  
He wasn’t alone. 

England blushed. “We are.”

“Is that okay?’ France asked, pulling back and looking him in the eye. “You’re always so uptight about these things. Are you sure it’s okay?”

England smiled softly. “If it wasn’t okay, I wouldn’t have asked you to kiss me again.” 

France nodded, hugging him again. 

“I’ve gotcha.” England whispered, gently rubbing his back. I’ve gotcha.”


End file.
